In Your Memory
by Semyr
Summary: When he wakes up and tries to remember why he's in the hospital, he can't. There's a man – obviously a doctor – standing at the foot of his bed, so he stares at him and tries to understand. Truths, however, aren't always that easy to deduce.


Hi everyone! I'm trying out a totally different genre for a plot bunny that kidnapped me and refused to let me go. I was actually a bit surprised – it's been a while since I wrote without an external prompt. Thank you very much for deciding to try it out, I dearly hope you'll enjoy!

* * *

**In Your Memory**

The first time he wakes up, it's only for a few seconds. There's what feels like a circle of steel pressing firmly behind his eyes and the glimpse of hygienic blue walls he catches as he tries to open them doesn't leave him any doubts as to where he is. The only thing left to determine is why he would be in the hospital, but this can be done later – right now, the allure of sleep is far too strong.

* * *

The second time he comes around, he firmly grasps at his consciousness and refuses to let it go. Letting his eyes open in a slant shows the monotonous blue of hospital walls once again: it's time to consider what had brought him here. Something, however, isn't right. As he starts trying to think back, his thoughts slide away from him, escaping his attempts to seize them with insulting ease. Further tries to remember at least his own features, name, _identity_ face the same fate.

A cold certainty seizes him – he's hurt, drugged, lost, _vulnerable_, dangerously so. More information is required to understand what he's to do. He opens his eyes the rest of the way, carefully, wary of attracting the attention of a possible threat. As it happens, he needn't have worried; the only other person in the room _(private and large room, rich relatives or rich myself, victim of a rape? trauma could cause amnesia?)_ has his back to him, absorbed in his practised reading of what seems to be the medical chart at the end of his bed. Clearly a doctor, but no blouse – not here on his official capacity? The posture suggests military, even though what must have been a military haircut has grown back a little – he has been brought back between two and four months ago, assuming he was indeed in the army. Very tired eyes, and a sad countenance; was the man in the hospital for the same reason than whatever had brought him there? The glimpse of a bandage under a jumper's sleeve and the way the doctor holds himself, as if his right leg hurts, allows him to tentatively decide he was.

The unknown man will turn towards the bed any moment and he can't allow any questions to be sent his way. This means he has to be on the offensive, acquire information without letting through just how much he doesn't know. The first inquiry will have to be believable and couched in general terms, then.

"What happened?" As expected, his voice is no more than a croak, but the other man whirls around. The washed-out face is very expressive: clear dread gives place to clearer relief as the man faces him. The doctor doesn't answer immediately, though, or at least call his name out in surprise, much to his disappointment; instead, he brings a cup of water to his lips, expertly making sure he doesn't choke.

"What can you remember? Do you remember Moriarty?"

The other man's dark blue eyes watch him very carefully and he distinctly feels like this is a kind of test. _Moriarty_. The name is tantalisingly familiar, dancing on the edge of his memory. He gets a vague impression of coldness, of black hair, and then before he knows it another name crosses his lips.

"Jim."

The doctor's eyes narrow a bit, and it's clear to him that if it was a test, he's failed it. He has no way to know why, if he wasn't supposed to know this name or if he was supposed to find it faster, but it doesn't matter because the other man starts talking again.

"And do you know who I am?"

He searches for a way to answer, but nothing comes immediately to his mind. As he flounders, he catches the strangest expression on the other man's face, one he's already seen on those features today; relief. Nothing quite makes sense and eventually he decides to show his hand in this dangerous game they're playing, because it's all the options he seems to have left.

"You're an army doctor, rather recently discharged from Afghanistan." It's either that or Iraq, assuming his previous suppositions are even correct, but he can't afford to show any kind of doubt if this is to work. "We've been colleagues for a while, and your right leg and your left wrist have been hurt in our accident" – the term is vague, it should suffice – "whereas your shoulder wound comes from your time in the army."

It's not enough, he realises even as he lays it all out, it's too imprecise, too uncertain, too little to convince anyone. The doctor is smiling, though, a bitter-sweet smile.

"I'm John Watson, your flatmate." The name evokes nothing, not even the hint of an emotion or the flashes of memory he's had earlier. The doctor – John – sits on the edge of his bed and, in an incomprehensible motion, places two fingers lightly on his left temple. His own hair is cut very short as well, he immediately realizes under the touch, even though he can't say if it's due to his (almost certain) head injury or if it was the case before whatever caused the wound. "You're a bit damaged, but I think I can still see you…Sherlock."

The name doesn't provoke any brutal return of his memories, but the impressions it summons are incredibly strong. He can almost taste them, even though he can't understand them. Triumph. Annoyance. Delight. Amusement. It's a loss of control but he can't help but revel in it a little because it's the first time since he's woken up that he can really _feel_.

"What happened?" He asks once again, because the man – _John_ – seems perfectly content to sit next to him in silence. He actually doesn't answer for a few moments but Sherlock doesn't interrupt, instinctively knowing he is going to once he's sorted everything out. It's already apparent to him that he didn't choose the other man as his flatmate for his brains.

"You were a detective – still are, as you've shown with your little display earlier. We're indeed colleagues of a sort, even though I'm no detective material. For the past few days, we've been searching for a criminal mastermind." John smiles at those words, inexplicably, and Sherlock feels a sharp point of frustration that he can't understand what clearly is a reference addressed to the man he's being told he is. He will understand, soon, he promises to himself. Even if this condition is permanent, he can relearn quickly enough. "You found him, but it seems he managed to outsmart you a little. Us being in the hospital is the result of that – and I really think this is enough for you to know for now. You should get some rest."

Sherlock ignores the suggestion.

"What about Moriarty?"

John doesn't refute the connection between the name he evoked earlier and his explanation; he doesn't even look surprised that Sherlock has worked it out. He does look, however, like he'd love nothing more than to repeatedly shoot someone, and Sherlock has to admit that having this angry, even hateful gaze from the previously placid man directed at him is disconcerting, and he's glad when John stands from the bed and faces away from him.

"I have good reasons to think he won't be bothering us again. Get some rest, now, or I'll just up your meds and let them be the ones to argue with you."

Thousands of inquiries he can almost taste are still on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back, less to obey John's request than because he refuses to put himself any further at the other man's mercy. Before he has to time to carefully examine the new information he's been given, blackness returns.

* * *

The third time he wakes, he's careful to keep his eyes closed and his respiration even before he's even aware of the reason he'd wish to do so. John is talking to someone. The voices come from his right, where he's seen a door in his previous foray in the land of consciousness, and seem to be far away enough for him to crack an eye open. He has a vague impression of a very tall man next to John, leaning, curiously enough, on an umbrella, before he has to quickly close his eye again – obviously, someone has elected to give him another dose of drugs as he slept.

He strains his ears to listen to the conversation instead, but what he can catch doesn't make much sense.

"you even know…you're doing?" That's the other man's voice. Posh, very calm, totally unfamiliar.

"What I must." John's voice is clearer; he must be the one closer to the bed. It's also a bit broken. "No, don't answer that, I know it's not true. I'm doing…the absolutely single thing I can think to do right now."

"…at least come…Sunday?"

"We'll be probably be out of the country by then, Mycroft. That is…if you help me." _Mycroft_ – he stores the name away, even though it's foreign as well.

Light footsteps take the two men closer to his bed and he can now hear enough to easily fill the blanks when his audition fails him.

"His only request was that I do right by you, so I will. I only hope this won't end up in another disaster."

"Do you want to meet him?"

"No." The answer is immediate, and for the first time spoken with something less than total equanimity – a certain sharpness, perhaps anger, perhaps disgust. Perhaps both. "I think it would be better for the three of us never to meet again."

Two fingers come to rest on his left temple, and he instantly knows they're John's. In spite of all his efforts, he finds himself drifting off once again.

* * *

The fourth time Jim Moriarty will open his eyes to the pale blue walls of his private room in London Bridge Hospital will also be the last time he will ever see them. Passports will be ready for John and him, courtesy of a certain government official. The name "Sherlock Holmes" will be written under the picture of a man with short black hair and very dark eyes, and no one will ever dispute this identity again – not even the man borrowing it.

John knows this is insane, and desperate, and twisted beyond measure. He also knows that this may be his only chance to find once again what a sniper's unforgivable bullet has taken from him when it went through a left temple to bury itself into the most brilliant mind he has ever known. He knows this is the only way for Sherlock to exist elsewhere than in his memory.

Moriarty will never remember. John will never forget.


End file.
